A Tip From Your Barista: I Hate You

I had maybe the worst day with members of the service industry ever, today. I got berated by a barista and hit on by a Fresh Direct delivery person. My friend Jude pointed out not too long ago that I don’t do anything for myself anymore: not my laundry, not my grocery shopping, not even making my own coffee. Surely this is some kind of karmic comeuppance.

I’m working at home right now, so it’s worse than usual. I generally roll out of bed around 8:00 and go across the street to Starbucks to get my iced venti americano. (Yes, even in cold weather.) If they’re lucky, sometimes I’ll do something with my hair or brush my teeth first. Usually not, though.

Anyway, today I also decided to get an egg sandwich, which they have now. Thing is, I’m on a diet, and the “reduced fat” sandwich … well, reduced from what, I’d like to know. 100 grams of fat? I decided to ask.

Because I have waited on the public, and am not a dick, no matter what Jude tells you, I asked thusly: “Excuse me. I’m wondering if you have any nutrional information on the egg sandwiches?”

Barista: “Nutrional information?”

Me: “Yes, like fat and so on. I got the ‘reduced fat’ but you know how that is. If you don’t have it, don’t worry. Don’t like, look or anything. I just thought you might have a card or something.”

At this point, the manager came over.

Manager to barista: “What does she want?”

Barista to manager: “She wants to know the nutrional information on the sandwiches.”

Me: “It’s cool. Don’t worry about it.”

Manager (looking disgusted): “There’s fat in it, OK? Like a lot of fat. A LOT OF FAT.”

Me: “OK, that’s fine, whatever. Thanks!”

Manager: “It’s an EGG SANDWICH, you know? It’s not good for you.”

Me: “Fine. Great. Thanks.”

Barista to manager: “She ordered the reduced fat, though.”

Manager: “Well, there’s still a lot of fat.”

Me: “OK! Thanks again!”

Then I headed over to the bar to wait for my drink. Manager guy? Followed me. Now he had a wrapper from the reduced fat turkey bacon sandwich and was reading it to me.

Manager: “There’s 11 grams of fat, OK? And 4 of that is saturated. But there’s no trans fats in here, no siree.”

Me: “You know? That’s OK. I’m really all set.”

Manager: “You sure? Cuz I could read the calories.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Barista: “Iced venti americano on the bar!”

Me: “Thanks.”

I walked back over to the registers to wait for my sandwich. The manager followed. The microwave dinged, he took out the sandwich and wrapped it up, and then held it out.

“That’s mine,” I said.

“All sandwiches get picked up at the bar,” he said. And walked over to end and put it down.

I hope he gets second-hand arterial sclerosis from breathing in all that “reduced” bacon fat.

So, after all that, home I went to await the Fresh Direct guy. Who was early for a change. I met him at the door and let him in, extra careful to be nice to him, since my service person karma was so out of joint for the day. I opened the outer door. I opened the inner door. I opened my door, and signed the sheet with a smile and gave him a tip. As I was bending down to get my purse, he said:

“Is that a tattoo?”

I grabbed my lower back, where I do indeed have a tattoo. If you are a female and you were born in the U.S. in the late 1970s, you now have:

1) A blog.2) A tattoo on your lower back.3) A pierced belly button, and perhaps a nosering.

I don’t make the rules.

Anyway, still concerned about my karma, I replied: “Yes, yes it is a tattoo.”

“What’s it of?”

“Um, it’s just like a flower thing,” I said. Usually, I say, “It’s an arrow, pointing to my ass, in case anyone gets lost.” But this didn’t seem wise, given the circumstances.

“I like it.”

“Thanks,” I said, all but shoving him in the face to get him out the door. Which I then locked immediately and blocked with my physical person, whilst sliding to the floor in a sigh.

That was opportunity a knockin’ Smash, and you so mixed metaphorishly dropped the ball.

You simply smile and flaunt your blogged about curves at the Fresh Direct dude, sigh and relate the story of the Starbucks Douche and his mordant malicousness. A well-placed insinuation that you’d be ever so grateful to see the Douche receive a comeuppance and you might well be on your way to an entertaining street fight.

Hmmm, I was born in the late 1970s, and 1) my blog is gone;2) my tattoo is on my abdomen, and said tattoo should probably be removed due to the stress my pregnancy has caused it; and3) no piercings, other than my ears.